


no loneliness in this dream

by ButterflyRogue



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Emotional Roller Coaster, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Mild Sexual Content, POV Alternating, Remadora, Slow Burn, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23302315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyRogue/pseuds/ButterflyRogue
Summary: Road to hell is paved with good intentions, but, ironically, somehow you're not allowed to use those as stepping stones on your way back up.Remus, Tonks, and their tentative steps back to each other.
Relationships: Remus Lupin/Nymphadora Tonks
Comments: 32
Kudos: 75





	1. inside, outside

He stumbles into her London flat late on a Wednesday evening.

He is battered and bleeding, mud dripping from his sodden coat, eyes haunted and desperate on her, and her heart is in her throat as she ushers him inside and maneuvers him onto her couch. She can just barely make sense of his mutterings, a mixture of endless apologies and something she knows better than to hope meant “ _I had to see you_ ”; instead she brushes cool hands over his feverish skin and forces herself to slip into familiar patterns of her emergency healing training.

Wand swirling, she mentally works through the critical checkpoints: fractures, hidden contusions, internal haemorrhage, cursed wounds, infection, poison; readily applying immediate treatment wherever required. Then flicks her wand at the bathroom, filling the tub with hot water, and gently levitates him there, peels his clothing carefully away, determined not to wince at the angry pattern of bruises blooming across his protruding ribs. He mumbles feeble protests between more apologies, but his lids are heavy and he is just barely hanging on the vestiges of consciousness. Tenderly, she washes away the blood and the dirt as warm fumes bring the colour back to his face. She forces potions down his throat; restoratives and blood replenishers (endlessly thankful for whatever providence made her keep her emergency kit well stocked), then a diagnostic one just in case she missed something the first time around.

He falls asleep before the water has had the chance to cool and it isn’t until she has him dried and tucked into her bed that she finally breaks down.

She curls up on the floor at the foot of the bed and buries her face into her knees as her shoulders shake with silent sobs.

It has been two days – _exactly_ two days, almost to the minute – from that dreadful night at the Astronomy tower. Two days since the world lost Dumbledore and she thought she had lost Remus for good.

It was all a blur to her still - the fight breaking out, their pitiful handful of fighters desperately engaging Death Eaters left and right; she had ducked out of the way of a killing curse that enourmus maniac was firing off all over the place, then froze in horror as that same flicker of green headed straight for Remus, whipping less than an inch from his ear. Had he turned his head half a second later, had he taken a step forwards instead of backwards, had that other Death Eater not come hurtling down the stairs at that precise moment... She was petrified, eyes glazed, watching realisation dawn on his paling face as Gibbon toppled, as if in slow-motion, at his feet. Numb with shock, she went full offensive on Rowle, metaphorically stretching herself as a human shield, as if to absorb all of his mad casting onto herself. She barely remembered the end of the fight, went through the motions of levitating Bill to the hospital wing, then Dumbledore - _dead_...

Her brain was on auto-pilot for the better part of that conversation.

And then, Fleur and Molly's completely unexpected showdown and --- well. In retrospect, her timing _really_ is the worst. And he hated that, _of course_ he hated it - he's always hated bringing private matters into the public. Afterwards, she could only listen in horrified disbelief as he announced he was going back to the werewolf camp, before being forced to leave herself, heartbroken and humiliated, to vacate her rooms in Hogsmeade on direct orders from the Ministry.

For two days she lived in that daze, work to Order meeting to home, convinced he was dead, or as good as, now truly all alone in his predicament.

Now the tears that streamed down her cheeks, she couldn’t tell whether they were from sorrow or relief. Pulling herself together abruptly, she rubbed at her face until it was red and raw and drew herself up to sit on the bed next to him. She felt his forehead, the fever seemed to be subsiding, and his breathing was deep and even. Careful not to rouse him, she leaned forwards and pressed a long kiss to his scruffy cheek, right at the corner of his lips, then silently left the room.


	2. just as I begin to fade

He wakes up in warmth and softness.

The rising sun teases at his eyelids and he burrows his face into the pillow, in an attempt to hold on to the sweet relief of sleep for a little while longer. It smells like Dora. _Everything_ around him smells like Dora, and if this is a dream, he never wants to wake from it. Rational thought slams into him a moment later and he bolts upright in alarm, sore muscles protesting and a sharp stinging in his ribs forcing him to fight off a wave of nausea. Eyes watering, chest heaving, he takes in the small bedroom. Sunlight streams through the large window, giving shape to overflowing bookshelves, a large wardrobe, a dressing table full of scrolls and quills and empty ink pots, clothing piled on the nearby chair – a pair of jeans, several jumpers, a violet T-shirt with neon green print, a yellow and black striped sweater with a Hogwarts crest visible on one hanging sleeve.

His ragged breathing finally slows to normal and he lets himself fall back to the bed.

In all honesty, he can't quite remember how he ended up at her flat. After the events in Hogwarts, he knew he had very little time to make something of his doomed mission before his cover was completely blown. He didn’t expect success, he scarcely dared hope to escape with his life, yet he owed it to the memory of his fallen mentor to at least try. Unfortunately, Greyback returned sooner than he’d anticipated and put a violent stop to his efforts. Reluctant to use his wand, foolishly hoping that the werewolves may appreciate the gesture, he had taken quite a beating before finally managing to slip away. She was at the forefront of his mind the entire time, though, her lovely features and blazing dark eyes as she fiercely professed her love to him over and over again, that memory the only thing holding him back from giving up and allowing the pack to rip him apart. His longing for her must have brought him here, he rationalized, unconsciously guiding his apparition.

Glancing to his left, he finds neatly folded Ministry-grade robes and gingerly rises to put them on. Then he slowly moves out into the sitting room. She is asleep on the sofa, curled on the haphazardly piled pillows, the blanket halfway down on the floor. Stifling a groan of pain, he crouches and pulls it back over her, then brushes a dark curl from her forehead. A glance at the clock tells him it’s not even five in the morning yet. His shoes are by the door and his coat is hanging on the coat rack. It would be so easy to leave, to erase himself from her life, the life he tainted too much already. He had no right to impose on her like this, he had no right to barge in on her as he must have done last night, forcing her to tend to him, especially after the way he treated her during the past year. He loved her _so terribly much_ and wanted nothing more than to gather her in his arms and never sleep nor wake without her ever again, yet he was crippled with terror at what that might bring down on her, on them both.

The truth is, the intensity of her love terrified him. There was never anyone who’d loved him so blindly and unconditionally, save, perhaps, his parents. He knew that if he roused her right now and asked her to be his forever, she’d accept without a moment’s hesitation and he couldn't deny a bizarre sort of thrill he felt in this, a fire burning through his veins every time he glimpsed that undivided devotion in her eyes. But then again, he noticed how she crumbled a little bit every time he saw her lately, witnessed the light dying in her eyes just days ago, as she boldly bared her heart to a room full of people only to be ignored by the very one she was declaring herself to. It was only a matter of time before he chips away at that insurmountable mountain of love so much that it becomes hollow and resentful.

Joints creaking, he stood and moved away; back towards the bedroom or to dash outside and away, he hadn’t quite decided yet.

“Don’t leave.”

Her voice is low and raspy with sleep. When he turns, she is blinking into the dawning light and untangling herself from the couch.

“Not until you’ve recovered at least,” she stumbles a bit over a wrinkle in the carpet and clears her throat. “Two of your ribs were broken and there was some internal damage. I think I fixed it all, but you need to give it a little while to heal properly.”

“I--- Thank you,” he stutters.

“Look, if it’s me, you don’t have to worry about that,” her eyes are not quite meeting his and she sounds almost embarrassed. “I’m barely home anyway, we don't have to talk or anything.” A pause, she swallows and her brow wrinkles as if she's in pain. “In fact, if you kip for another hour or so, I’ll be gone for the day, you won’t even have to look at me.”

"No, no, that's not--- I couldn't impose---"

"You're not. Really, you're not. Just please, I'm begging you, stay here where you're safe."

Their eyes finally meet and he doesn't know how to deny anything to her, doesn't want to deny her and can't understand how he ever could. He nods and she drops back on the couch, eyes fixed on the brightening skies, as he shuffles back towards the bedroom.


	3. then I remember

She comes home from work that evening later than usual, prolonging the hours with paperwork, at the same time anxious to return to her flat and dreading what she may find (or not find) there.

She opens the door slowly, tentatively, then feels ridiculous, ashamed of herself, as if she’s keeping a prisoner and expecting him to slip through the slightest crack like smoke through fingers. Glancing to her left - his shoes and coat are still where she left them last night. There's a distant hum of running water coming from the bathroom and she finally manages to breathe past the lump in her throat and slumps against the door in a moment of breathless thrill.

A sobering thought chokes her a moment later. Ok, so he stayed. That doesn't exactly change anything. For the millionth time during the course of the past year, she wonders what she actually has to base this utter devotion on. Several broken confessions and a single clumsy, fervent kiss shared in a dusty library of a forgotten mansion, what felt like a lifetime ago.

Yet - the strongest patronuses she had ever produced stemmed from that particular memory.

Was this how it was going to be? Their paths crossing and coiling around one another for the briefest of moments, then inevitably drifting their separate ways, in eternal expectation of repeating that flicker of passion once again?

 _Better that than nothing_ , her heart hammers stubbornly, but deep in that same heart she knows it never would have sustained. She couldn't live like that. As much as she loved him, as much as she knew she will always love him and only him, it wouldn't be much of a life if half of it was spent in pain and tears.

Quickly discarding her jacket and trainers, she rushes into the bedroom to pick up some clothes for tomorrow, desperate to disturb him as little as possible, despite everything still so genuinely overjoyed to just have him here for a while, even if she made every allowance necessary to make it seem as if she barely existed in the same area as well. She notices the neatly made bed, linen freshly changed, the used one in a pile next to the door, his robes washed and neatly folded next to it, and that lump lodges back at the back of her throat. Suddenly, she feels like crying, then berates herself for it almost immediately. She has no claim to him, he owes nothing to her and if he is planning to leave after all and just didn't manage to clear out soon enough, that’s entirely his right to do.

Yet he came to her last night, and many times before. _She_ was the one who'd always been fair, always kept her end of the bargain: stopped writing when he told her to, forced herself not to seek him out every time she knew he was at Molly's, stayed away whenever he asked her to, no matter how much it tore her apart from the inside. She always followed his rules, _always_ \- except once and was suddenly terrified that that one moment of reckless weakness was going to cost her him forever.

"I'm sorry," he rasps gently behind her and she spins around so fast it makes her dizzy so she has to grab the door frame for support.

He is still dressed in the plain robes she found for him last night, except he is very cleanly shaven and his hair is trimmed short and neatly slicked back, and he suddenly looks very much like the Remus she met that first night in a dingy basement kitchen at Grimmauld place. The Remus she feels she hasn't seen in a very, very long time.

He reaches awkwardly around her and gathers the discarded sheets in his arms.

"I would've washed these, but the haircut took longer than I anticipated."

His lips form a ghost of a smile. _Almost_.

"You don't have to," she mutters.

He shakes his head in dismissal and shuffles back into the bathroom, then out again and towards the sitting room and onto the couch.

"I've vacated the bedroom."

"No---"

"I absolutely insist."

His voice is firmer than what she's heard in forever so she stops protesting.

"You've done more than enough already," softer now, almost shy. "Thank you."

She nods and locks herself in the bathroom.


	4. I keep the dream in my pocket

He opens his eyes with the first shuffle of movement from the bedroom.

He hears her stumble with increased care towards the bathroom, careful not to make too much noise, failing clumsily and pausing to ensure she hasn't woken him, then proceeding again. The soft hum of running water, the scrape of a toothbrush, the clanking of make up containers as she picks them up and drops them back down. Back to the bedroom then, the gentle squeak of wardrobe, the rustle of material against skin as she undresses, a thump and a muffled swear word as she rubs the afflicted toe or knee or elbow and he smiles despite himself, at the same time stifling a desperate urge to cover each and every bump with his lips, to kiss her and kiss her and _kiss her_ until there is no more pain, only light and peace and a sweet, sweet feeling as beautiful and perfect as she is.

She has kept her word and hasn't broached the subject of ' _them_ ' once. In fact, apart from those few moments yesterday morning and evening, she not only barely spoke to him, it was almost as if she made herself purposefully invisible, and that was just _so wrong_ on so many levels. He wishes she'd say something, and soon, because he has so much he wants to tell her, but he doesn't know where to start and she's always been so much better at these things than he is. The true master of her own fate, resisting the tides that threaten to sweep her away, whereas he bumped from one corner of the world to the other, like a leaf on the wind, too weak to take the reins back from being governed by his own misery.

It's awfully selfish, he knows, she has already done so much instead of him. He knows he's pushed her too far already, and just as he finally embraced the fact he doesn't want to push her away at all. But he _truly_ did have her best interests at heart when he got them both into this mess. After all, road to hell is paved with good intentions. Ironically, somehow you're not allowed to use those as stepping stones on your way back up.

Footsteps muffled by the plush carpet announce her arrival to the sitting room and he buries his face into the pillow. It smells like her, he made sure to take the same one he woke up to yesterday. Counting his breaths, he contemplates whether she had perhaps paused to look at him as he had stooped before her sleeping form the previous morning, or if he was just a bad memory laying siege to her couch, one she will flee her own flat for so that they don't have to share the same space for longer than necessary. Carefully, he cracks an eyelid open and sees her step into the grey dawn spilling through the halfway pulled blinds, watches as she tucks her T-shirt into the waistband of her jeans and fastens a wand holster to her thigh, then pulls her lank brown hair into a messy knot at the top of her head. Trainers, jacket on, auror robes scrunched up and shoved into a knapsack, then the click of the front door opening and closing and she is gone.

Remus unfurls himself and shifts on his back, both hands on his face.

He knows by now that he was always going to go back to her. No matter how far he ran from it or how much he tried to deny it, or as much as it scared him to acknowledge this love, it suddenly terrified him even more to imagine himself without her. But the truth is, he doesn't know how to approach her because he is too afraid she has finally reached the point where she will reject him. Where she has already given up on him forever and this hazy limbo they're currently occupying is just her being kind.

And he doesn't know if he can survive that.


	5. never let it fade away

The first thing she notices when she enters the flat that evening is the soft clanking coming from the kitchen and savoury smells wafting through the room.

She releases a breath she wasn't aware she was holding, then immediately chastises herself. She had decided - no expectations, no foolish hope, not anymore. Just living one day at the time and hopefully maintaining at least a shred of dignity in all of this so that, once this bloody war is finally over, she can at least remember him with just love, without any pain or bitterness.

He peeks into the room and offers a tentative smile which she timidly returns before she can stop herself.

"Sorry, you're back earlier than last night. Dinner will be ready soon."

"You didn't have to," she stutters lamely and it feels like it's the only thing she's actually said to him in the past few days.

But he's ducked back into the kitchen already and she is left standing at the entrance of her own flat, feeling more like a stranger than ever. She makes an awkward path towards the bathroom and splashes cold water on her face until she is sure she is not going to cry. When she's back out, he's already portioned chicken and rice onto two plates and she joins him at the rickety table, so small that their knees brush under it.

"It's nothing fancy," he mutters as she stuffs a forkful into her mouth.

"Mmh, 's brilliant," she assures him, then adds once more for good measure: "You didn't have to."

"I know, but I wanted to."

He looks at her kindly, the corners of his lips quirked slightly upwards and she tries the same, unsure if she's forcing a smile or stifling tears. Instead, she prattles on, hoping he won't notice, desperate for the moment to last because this, here, _now_ , squeezed together in her tiny kitchen and exchanging mundane phrases - it's the happiest she's been in a year. Decisions and expectations be damned.

"Sorry, I know there wasn't a lot to choose from in the pantry, the grocery shop I usually go to has weird working hours, and I've been away for so long I keep forgetting when it's open." She spears a piece of chicken on her fork and waves with it as she continues so he wouldn't see her hands are shaking. "It's stupid, really, it's not even a very good shop, they're always out of something and their daily fresh meals are anything but. Still, I know the Muggles who run it. Sweet people, always give me free stuff and complain my hips aren't wide enough for childbirth."

She makes a mistake of looking up and finds him looking at her with an odd expression on his face, one in equal measures beautiful and disconcerting, and all words die in her throat. He blinks, as if her silence snapped him from a daze, and refocuses on his dinner.

"There'll be an Order meeting tomorrow, once more before the funeral," she manages after several long minutes of choked silence, grasping for threads of conversation that once used to come to them so easily.

"Oh. All right," he pushes the food around on his plate, his eyes downcast. "I didn't tell anyone I was back and only... well, _Dumbledore_ , only he knew---"

"I owled McGonagall the night you arrived," her movements mimic his as she forces steadiness in her voice. "To let her know and---"

Their eyes meet and once again, she is overwhelmed.

"You were in a bad shape. I was scared. I wanted to take you to Hogwarts to Poppy."

His hand twitches on the tabletop and she almost turns hers palm-up to receive it. _Almost_. She raises it to her hair instead, rakes her fingers through it, nails scraping along her scalp, as she holds her breath, and everything else, inside. His curls inwards, into a fist.

"I can't thank you enough. For everything."

"Don't mention it."

Success. Composure reinstated. She can breathe again now.

"I know what you must think." The fist tightens a fraction, then relaxes and his eyes are on hers again. "When I went back to the camp the other day. But I swear, I didn't want to die."

There's a roaring intensity in his gaze, one that prickles her skin with goose flesh and makes her head spin.

"Okay," she croaks, not trusting herself to say more.

He looks as if he wants to continue, she can feel his stare deep inside of her and her heartbeat is deafening in her ears because it's the most intimate they've been in what feels like forever. Then it's over, he looks away, sighs then swallows and whatever it was he'd meant to say is lost in the silence like so many of his words before.


	6. no loneliness in this dream

It's pitch dark outside when he wakes, roused by a creaking in the hallway and a thin sliver of light from her bedroom.

He finds her on her toes, in between a sea of scattered towels, straining to push several back in their place at the top shelf in the hallway cupboard.

"Let me," he rasps and she jumps a little, but recovers quickly enough so that her expression is neutral when she faces him.

"Sorry, 's really stupid," she mumbles as she hands him the towels. "Couldn't sleep, then I went to look for my dress robes..."

For a few minutes she folds and he stacks and the entire scene is so ridiculously domestic it's almost funny, yet they both grasp for words that once used to spring between them so easily.

She draws back to herself when they're done, crosses her arms in front of her chest like a shield. He stays stretched in front of her for longer than it's necessary, fingers tracing the layers of stacked towels.

"Did you mean it?"

It's barely a whisper, yet she looks up. Her eyes are hungry and he knows his are the same. His mouth is unbearably dry, though, he tries to clear his throat, swallow the anguish and the fear, but it sticks at the back of his tongue like aftertaste from a bad potion.

"Everything you said the other night. That you didn't care---"

"I've told you," she croaks, as if she can't believe what he's asking her. "So many times."

"I know, I know, I know you have," he shakes his head, frustrated with himself. "But please. Just one more time?"

" _Yes_ ," her voice breaks a bit, but there is no hesitation, no denial. "Every word. Every time."

He slumps against the shelves, curls towards her, chest tight and trembling fingers tentatively running down her arms.

"But it's not just me, you know," he forces himself to continue, hating how feeble he sounds. "The way people would look at you... In the real world... there's no place for me in the real world."

Suddenly he is aware her hands have moved very slowly and pressed against his chest. She seems to be barely breathing and her eyes are glistening and he wants to take her in his arms _so badly_! Just hold her close and forget about everything else, cocoon her with his love until they are both lost to the world and never again resurface.

"You have to understand - if you ever regret this, there will be no going back."

The several seconds that precede her response stretch on forever and he feels as if his heart would beat straight out of his chest if she weren't holding it in with the palms of her hands. Then suddenly, she isn’t anymore as those hands travel upwards until they are lightly cupping his face.

"I suppose I couldn't exactly choose to fall in love with you, Remus," she articulates her words carefully, her fingers gently tracing his jaw. "But all the same, if I could take it all back and rewrite things my way, I'd choose you all over again. Despite all the pain and hardships, even if you never accepted my love, I know that fighting for you is the one thing I will never regret doing. And the real world and its stupid people can just collectively bugger off."

It's as if he had been suffocating for ages and now fresh air has finally become available to him again. The oxygen burns his lungs as he presses his forehead against hers and feels her breath, shallow and shuddering and _relieved_ , on his chin. A tear rips free from her eye and he leans to catch it with his lips. It's salty and warm on his tongue and soon there's another and another and he is not even sure which one of them is crying anymore and once he finally reaches her mouth, it's the sweetest thing he's tasted in his life.


	7. tango in the night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short epilogue, because I really needed it... Also, I'm proving to myself I actually _can_ write these two without (too much) angst. 😅
> 
> Story and chapter titles are the amazing Fleetwood Mac, whose album (and song) _Tango in the Night_ was a major inspiration for this story. Their music in general speaks Remadora to me.
> 
> A massive thank you to everyone who followed, liked and reviewed this story! Lots of love to you all, stay safe! 💞

Saturday dawns sunny and stifling and their skin feels too warm against the cool cotton sheets they have tangled themselves into.

She is not used to waking with the weight of his limbs pressing her down and towards him. He is not used to taking as much space as he currently is, sprawled in the middle of the bed, wrapped around her like this. She twists and stretches against him and buries her nose in the hollow of his throat. His calloused fingertips trace a swirly pattern from her hip upwards. He opens his eyes and is blinded by the glow of her fair skin in the morning sun. As he trails kisses down her hairline, she breathes out his name while still half-asleep and it's the most thrilling sensation in the world.

Their first time was quick, both of them so crippled with longing it took only a few touches to push them both over the edge. After that, they took their time. They dedicated the night to reacquainting themselves with each other, for the first time completely bared to one another, fingers and lips wandering freely, without shame. And now, as he finds her mouth again and she blinks up at him, it's almost with practiced ease that she pulls him on top of her and spreads open for him, wrapping her legs around his waist.

They make love slowly, foreheads pressed tightly together, lips brushing between soft moans, never breaking eye contact. They hold each other tightly afterwards, savoring the contact they have denied to themselves for so long. She is off duty, the entire Ministry is given a day off before Dumbledore's funeral. He has no plans nor intention of leaving her side any time soon as it is. They doze on and off as the sun moves across the sky.

He is busy counting the freckles on her shoulder with his lips when her stomach suddenly growls and it's so unexpected that she bursts laughing, like a cork popping from a champagne bottle, uncontrolled giggles bubbling over. He stares in wonder because he has no words to express how much he missed that beautiful sound, then laughs along with her because he never wants to stop hearing it. She struggles to catch her breath against his shoulder and he twists his hand in her hair, pulls her in, desperate to taste her again, and the fine strands that wind between his fingers are the softest, palest pink.


End file.
